A Weasley Tradition
by azamystic
Summary: Ron gets a special present for his seventeenth bithday. Draco's life has taken a turn for the worst. Slave fic. Slash RWHP RWDM. Yep. It's an AU folks.
1. Birthday

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter One: Happy Birthday

Disclaimer: Disclaiming. That annoying thing we have to do that snaps us back to reality, and reminds us that we aren't making any money off of this, and that we don't own the characters. If only, if only the woodpecker sighed… (which, by the way, I don't own those lyrics either)

Ron stretched his arms above his head, yawning, savoring the early morning light, and the fact that he was more than likely the only one up. It didn't happen often, Ron hated getting up early. But on mornings like these, especially this morning, he enjoyed it, because today was his birthday, and what a fine day to have his birthday on! The sun was shining, the birds were chirping…ok, no they weren't. If there were any birds outside they were freezing their asses off. It must have been around negative ten degrees Celsius. It was cold. As it well should be, it was only the first day of March, after all.

Ron smiled to himself. The day couldn't get any better, and it hadn't even started yet. He turned over and watched Harry sleep. His chest kept up a steady rhythm. Rise and Fall. Rise and Fall. Ron noticed with amusement that his orange bed sheets clashed violently with Harry's scarlet pajamas. He breathed in the familiar and homey scent of the Burrow. He hadn't been home for a birthday since he was ten, but last year the Ministry decided the wizarding world was in need of a new holiday. So at the end of February right on in to the middle of March, no one went to school, and time at work was limited. Ron didn't really understand what the holiday was for. All he had gotten from Hermione's quick explanation that was full of unnecessarily big words was that they were supposed to be honoring the witches and wizards who died during the Salem Witch Trails. But Ron knew for a fact that no magical person had died during that time period, and this was only because, for once in his life, he had paid attention in History of Magic. He had spent almost a week trying figure out a reason for the holiday before coming to the conclusion that it didn't really matter. They got time off of school! Who cared why? And, conveniently, his birthday fell into the slot of time off.

The smells of breakfast were coming from downstairs. Ron's stomach grumbled and he realized he'd have to get up soon. He'd been awake for a few hours now, and he could hear other people downstairs, walking around, bumping into things, and generally making a lot of noise.

Ok, so, if today was March 1, then how long had they been out of school now? Alright, that's today, and we got off then, so that's three, minus the four, carry the two…

"Ron, what are you doing?" asked a sleepy Harry. Ron didn't realize he had been talking out loud. "It's too early in the morning to be talking to yourself"

"Oh, I was just…never mind." He changed the subject. "Hey, Harry, we better get up, Hermione's going to be here soon!"

"What for? She's staying with her parents until your birth…oh." He gave Ron a sheepish smile. "Happy Birthday mate!"

Ron just rolled his eyes and laughed. "You dolt! Come on, I'll race you downstairs!"

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Hermione came over, and would be with them until it was time to go back to school. Breakfast had been delicious, his presents were fantastic (apparently, the gifts are better once you come of age) and the best part of the day, was sitting in his pocket.

He pulled out a card, roughly the size of a muggle I.D. There was his picture, waving happily at him. Ron read the card again, loving the way it sounded. "Ronald Bilious Weasley, Age 17, first class"

"Sounds important!" Harry laughed from behind him. Ron turned red, but laughed along with Harry.

"It is. Tomorrow wouldn't be possible without it." Harry looked confused.

"Why, what's tomorrow?" Ron blanched. _Damn! Had he forgotten to tell him? _

"I, uh, I told you didn't I?

"No, you didn't. Why, what's happening tomorrow?" _God, he had forgotten to tell him!_

"Well, you'll find out soon enough. G'night Harry, I'm going to bed, err, really exhausting day. The broom kit was great, by the way" And before Harry could inquire any further about what was going to happen tomorrow, Ron was up the stairs, and in the bed.


	2. Homecoming

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 2: Welcome Home

Disclaimer: I simply cannot afford to be sued right now. Actually, I can't afford anything right now. So, you know, I don't own it, and never will, unless, unbeknownst to me, I am related to Miss Rowling, and she leaves me the character rights when she dies.

A/N: I meant to leave this in the last chapter. I'm not sure if I should make Harry and Ron have a "friends with benefits" thing going on, or if I should even make this slash. I think I need a muse. Maybe I'll get one. But, what would I call it…-continues to ramble-

To say things had changed would be the biggest understatement of the century. Oh, it had happened gradually, nothing sudden, but it had happened. Things were most definitely different, and his mind was constantly traveling back to when it started, despite his pointless effort not to think about it.

He had left home at the end of summer break, and gone to Hogwarts for his sixth year. Nothing new there. He had gone back home, along with most of the school, for Christmas break, and noticed a few things while he was there. For example, most of the priceless family heirlooms, normally flaunted on the mantel, were missing. His mother claimed to have 'redecorated,' but after having searched the whole house one day while she was out, which took most of the day, he had come to the conclusion that they were not located anywhere inside of Malfoy Manor. So, they were a little short on money, and his mother didn't want him to know. Understandable, after all, they no longer got and income, what with his father being in prison, and his mother refusing to work. She had obviously sold them. But it didn't make sense. Even without an income they had, (literally) tons of gold stashed away in Gringotts. Surely, she couldn't have spent it all in a year?

But it wasn't his place to question his mother's actions. She did what she wanted, and he did what she wanted. He supposed now he should have asked her something, or inquired just a little further about the oddities he was noticing. It just might have done something. But it wasn't his fault; he wasn't going to blame himself for their sudden bankruptcy. Hell, he wouldn't even take the blame when something _was_ his fault. He went back to school after Christmas break confused.

Then, there was that new holiday that made absolutely no sense. Surprisingly, most kids were staying at school for this one. Well, maybe it wasn't so surprising. Parents didn't have time to plan out vacations or anything. The holiday had practically appeared out of nowhere. He only knew of a few kids returning home. Pansy was, he knew for a fact. He was almost certain Blaise wasn't staying at school either. He honestly didn't know about Crabbe or Goyle. Contrary to popular belief they were _not _his friends. The first time they had met had been on the train to Hogwarts five years ago. He hadn't said anything, or told them to do anything, just politely asked their names. All he had done was sit in a compartment with them, and when he walked outside for a bit of fresh air, he found one walking beside each of his shoulders. He was going to tell them to go away, but then thought that they might come in handy, so he let them stay where they were. As it turned out, they _had _come in handy over the years, and to this day Draco was grateful for his choice of seats that first train ride to Hogwarts.

He was once again on afore mentioned train, going home for that senseless holiday. He had requested that his mother let him stay at school, but she said she wanted him home. After an uneventful ride, the Hogwarts express pulled onto Kings Cross station, platform 9 ¾. There was another thing that didn't make sense. Why call it 9 ¾ when it was in the middle of platforms 9 and 10. Why not 9 ½? Another inquiry he never made, it wasn't his place to ask.

He stepped off, and looked around for his butler. To his surprise he saw, not his butler, or any other servant for that matter, but his own mother. They made eye contact, and she came running over. Draco would like to say that his mother came running over gracefully to meet him, because if she had to run at all, that would be the way to do it. And Draco could say that if he wanted to, but it would be a lie. Well, he had never had any problems with lying before, so, what the heck? His mother came running gracefully to meet him.

But not by the furthest extent of the imagination could you call Narcissa Malfoy's rush to greet her son graceful. She ran, tripping over carts and suitcases, barely able to keep a straight line. It almost looked like she was drunk. And there was a very good explanation for that, Draco decided, as his mother hugged his neck and exclaimed how happy she was to see him. She _was_ drunk. The unmistakable smell of alcohol was heavy on her breath.

Draco gently pushed her away, holding her at arm's length. He examined his mother's face. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her once impossibly youthful skin was lined and wrinkled. Her make-up was applied sloppily, almost as if she hadn't had a looking glass while she was putting it on. Even as he thought it Draco felt ashamed of himself, but the first thing that had come to his mind when he saw his mother had been, he hoped Potter, his sidekick, and his sidekick's girlfriend had decided to stay at school. It wouldn't help his steadily declining reputation at all if they saw his mother like this.

But, of course, life is never that easy, for at that exact moment the golden trio came practically skipping off the train, chatting merrily amongst themselves. The red headed one seemed to be the only one who noticed him though. They made brief eye contact, or maybe not. It was so brief Draco could have imagined it. He was getting awfully paranoid these days.

He turned his attention back to his mother. How, what was he to do about her?

"Come on Dray, we need to talk," she said softly. She hadn't called him Dray in…he couldn't even remember the last time she had used his childhood nickname. They passed through the gate, and he blinked rapidly as his eyes tried to adjust to the harsh sunlight. All softness gone from her voice now, his mother began to speak very loudly. "Dray, as you know, we've been having some problems with money lately and well…"

"Mother," Draco said quietly, "Perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere?" Her eyes narrowed briefly, but then her face took on a childlike expression.

"Oh, of course dear. Let's speed it up though." She grabbed his arm, and before Draco could protest, he had been side-along apparated to…he honestly had no idea where he was. He was in a dark room that was small, damp, and impossibly cluttered. He was hoping his mother's drunkenness had accidentally landed them in this shit hole, but she looked like she knew the place very well. She walked over to a lump that Draco supposed could have been a couch. He was proven right when she sat down on it and gestured for him to do the same. He, however, remained standing.

"Mother, where the hell are we?" She looked confused only for a moment, then her eyes lit up like she had just remembered something.

"OH, of course, silly me, I forgot. Welcome home Dray!"


	3. Unknown Property

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 3: Unknown Property

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it.

A/n: There is now a slight slash warning. Not in this chapter, but in later ones. So don't yell at me about the slash to come.

Home? The last time he had checked, which hadn't been that long ago, he had been living in a mansion. Now his mother was telling him they were living in something the size of a large closet? Not possible. _No, _he reprimanded himself, _nothing was impossible._ Not probable then. Grasping at straws he replied, "Mother, tell me you're kidding."

"Draco, have you ever known me to joke?" The sad part was that he had. She used to be so funny, always laughing and telling jokes when he was little. Never when his father was there, of course, but he was hardly ever there. He was always off doing things for the Dark Lord. When he was younger Draco had wondered where his father went, all those months on end. Now he knew, and he numbly accepted that he was expected to do the same. If he had ever given it any thought he would have realized it wasn't fair. Not being given a choice to choose his own path? How did that make sense? But even if he had realized it, he would have resigned himself to an unfair life. That's what Draco had always done. Processed whatever information was given him and dealt with it, accepted it. But he wasn't sure if he could accept this.

It wasn't the fact that they no longer had the manor, or the wealth, it was the fact that he no longer had an inheritance, which _was_ the manor and the wealth…well, it wouldn't make sense if he said it out loud. But besides that, he was poor. His money was the only thing that had supported his claim of being better than everyone else. Well, that and his name. His name proved he was pure of blood, thus superior. But a name, you can't really flaunt a name. Money, now, you can flaunt money, but only if you had it. Which he didn't. Well, that was the only reason he could come up with for this drastic change. Refugee couldn't be right. Neither could hiding. If they needed to hide they had a very nice cottage in the north eastern United States, safely tucked away in a muggle camp ground.

He responded to his mother. "No, of course not. Sorry. But surely there is an explanation?"

Her voice took on a hard edge, but her slurred words dimmed the effect slightly. "How could there not be? Of course there is an explanation." She sighed heavily, and put her middle finger and thumb against her right temple, massaging softly, as if trying to ward off the beginnings of a headache. "Get comfortable Dray. This could take a while."

He was still standing, so he looked around for something to sit on. He only saw an old and not so stable looking chair. He figured that he'd end up on the floor one way or another, so he decided he'd just go ahead, and save the unsteady chair the effort of breaking under his weight. He looked around for a spot that wasn't completely covered in trash or mold. He finally found one that looked clean enough, and went to sit down. But as he put his left hand down to support himself, a piece of broken glass (from a firewhiskey bottle as he would later discover) sliced open his palm.

He hissed in sharply, and pulled out his wand to heal himself. It was difficult trying to use his other arm to heal his wand arm, and it became even more difficult when his mother actually grabbed his wand from him, and started shouting nonsense about 'not of age' and 'underage magic.' Since when had that become a problem?

He knew that as long as he was around someone of age he could use his magic outside of school, and the Ministry wouldn't know one way or another. Everyone knew the law was just an ill disguised attempt to keep the low life 'muggle borns' (to be politically correct) from blowing something up because they didn't have proper supervision. The Ministry wouldn't care if a pureblood, or even a halfblood were to use magic outside of school.

But now his mother was trying to heal his hand, and he wasn't about to let her do anything to him in her intoxicated state. He yanked it back, muttering more to himself than to her "fine fine, I'll just wrap it then" He raised his voice a bit so that she could hear him. "Is there a first aid kit around here somewhere?" His mother looked confused. Draco decided that the look most definitely did not suit her. He sighed heavily. "Never mind." He looked around the tiny room and noticed that there was a small bathroom to his left. He turned to go inside and realized that it was a _very_ small bathroom. In fact, he didn't see anything but a toilet. How the hell was he supposed to take a shower? He'd ask his mother later.

There wasn't a first aid kit either, and his hand was bleeding quite a lot now. He looked down. The hem of his robe was frayed. He could tear it and use that to tie his hand. But who knows when he'd be able to replace it? Even though he was living in poverty now there was no need to look the part any sooner than he had to. But if he didn't cover it soon it could get infected, especially in this hole that looked like a perfect breeding ground for bacteria. Let's see, possibly die from infection, or look like trash? It was a difficult decision to make, but he finally decided that if he died he wouldn't ever have a chance to look rich again, because this was obviously a temporary thing. Never once did it cross his mind that he could be living here for more than a few months.

Wincing, he ripped a strip of fabric off of his designer robes. He then expertly tied his hand, making sure the entire area was covered. His father had insisted he take a muggle first aid class when he was eleven. Now that he thought about it, that didn't make sense either. What were the chances he'd ever use it? Well, now of course, but his father couldn't have predicted that.

That was what, the fourth thing he had questioned today? What was wrong with him? Doubt had never been a part of his existence before. Draco paused, and smiled sadly at his choice of words. Existence, not life. He didn't know what it was like to live. He rarely felt anything real. Pansy had once complimented him on how well he hid his emotions, but it isn't that hard when you don't have any.

"Are you done?" his mother asked, the annoyance very clear in her voice. She was starting to act like her old self again. _The booze must be wearing off_, he thought.

"Yes, sorry mother. Please begin?" She settled herself more comfortably on the lump that was masquerading as a couch, and cleared her throat, as if she were about to make a very important speech at an aristocratic society gathering, not tell her sixteen year old son why they were living in a shit hole in afore mentioned shit hole.

"Right then. Well, as I'm sure you're aware; we've been having some issues with money lately." _If lately means just a few months ago and aware means I may have gotten a faint impression at Christmas, then yes._ "Well, all of it is gone."

At this point Draco interjected. "Surely there must still be…?"

"No, there is no fortune. Perhaps a few galleons, but that's all. Just enough to pay the rent on this place."

He narrowed his eyes. "May I ask where it all went?" Draco surprised himself with his tone. Insolent and slightly accusing.

Her eyes darkened, and her face took on a murderous look, distorting her pretty features. "I spent it bribing lawyers to appeal the Wizengamot's decision concerning your father's imprisonment, not to mention paying for the actual cases. It also turns out your father owed several people quite a bit of money. People that didn't take kindly to him landing himself in prison, so that of course made the interest rise phenomenally."

Interest? That was a muggle thing. He father owed muggles money? Interesting, no pun intended.

But still, that couldn't cover all the costs. Yes, wizard lawyers were very expensive, and Draco had no doubts about his father's debts. His mother's recent alcoholism had obviously contributed something, but it still didn't add up. Having been taught financing skills extensively as a child, he knew that it would cover savings and probably the manor. But what of the heirlooms? The Gringotts account could have been slowly depleted over the past year, and Draco would have never known the difference. His mother could have been making offers on the house for ages. That would cover the court cases and the bribes. The heirlooms though, they were obviously funding more than a bad habit. There just _had _to be something else.

"Is that all mother?" He tried to make the question sound casual, like he wasn't prying for information.

"Well, no. There is this wonderful muggle medicine I've become rather fond of. I forget what it's called. Hero- something another. You have to use a needle, which I admit is barbaric, but the effects are worth it. You feel so carefree, like nothing can ever hurt you again, like you just know everything will turn out alright."

So that was it then. His mother had become addicted to some muggle drug. She spent the money from the heirlooms on her own pleasures, instead of investing the money, and at least attempting to regain the manor.

"But Draco, I can hardly support myself now. There is no way I can support you as well. I have but one possession left, and I must sell it if either of us is to survive." Then she gave him an odd look, one he had never seen on his mother's face before. Desperation, he realized with a start, and the need for approval. She wanted him to tell her it was ok.

"Of course mother. It would be foolish not to sell it." She sighed with relief.

"Good. Then tomorrow we'll head down to Knockturn Alley, and see if we can't get you on the list. You qualify, I'm certain, and I'm sure you'll be bought soon. Someone will want you, and I'll see if I can set a fixed price."

Draco stopped breathing for a moment, and he was almost positive his heart had skipped a few beats. Her was her last possession? She was going to sell him?

His heart was weighed down with the peculiar sensation of emotion. This was one of the rare times he felt, but he needed it, even though it hurt. Every so often he needed a reminder about why he blocked out his emotions. This happened every time, but after a while, he would forget that feeling nothing has less cons than feeling something, and he would have to be reminded.

A tear had fallen from his eye, but by the time it hit the ground, he had rebuilt his walls. He was numb again. He would do what he had done all his life. He processed the information, and he accepted it. No questions asked.

A/n: ok, I don't actually know the effects of Heroin. I'm just basing it off of what drugs are supposed to do. The next chapter explains more about Ron, for those of you who were wondering, that's right, both of you, so you'll get it soon. No later than a week from this Saturday.


	4. Early Mornings

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 4: Early Mornings

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

A/n: Well, whoops. I forgot I was going to be at my dad's for a week, and he has no computer. I finished chapter four almost six days ago, and started working on chapter five, and somehow managed to lose the notebook that I write my stories in. Whoops again. Sorry for the late update, chapter five should be up in the next few days, seeing as it is already halfway done. This is all from memory, so sorry if it turns out crappy

Ron awoke once again to the early morning light slanting in through his window. This time the feeling wasn't pleasant. He groaned and rolled over. Why he had even woken up at such a God forsaken hour in the first place he didn't know. He had spent all night tossing and turning, his conscience lecturing him the entire time.

_You didn't tell them?_

_No, it just slipped my mind, I was going to tell them, I swear!_

_It just slipped your mind huh?_

_Yeah_

_Well, isn't that convenient for you! _

And so on and so forth until he finally fell into a fitful sleep full of dreams that made no sense and that he did not remember. So by all rights he should be sound asleep, and shouldn't even consider getting up until the sun was high in the sky. But here he was, wide awake, barely an hour after dawn. He was a disgrace. He didn't even deserve to be called a teenager. Oh well, as long as he was up he may as well be doing something productive.

He gasped. Either he had signed a binding contract that he knew nothing about that was making him act responsibly, or he had switched brains with Hermione sometime in the middle of the night. He laughed aloud at his own foolishness, and then turned to see if the noise had woken up Harry.

Harry's only response to the sudden noise was a contented murmur. Ron smiled at him, almost tenderly. Harry really was beautiful when he was asleep. But a manly beauty. There was nothing feminine about him, nothing except for his eyes. Every girl in Hogwarts envied his eyes. But he was really sensitive regarding that subject, so no one ever gave him trouble about it. No one save for Malfoy. Ron smirked in a rather un-Weasleyish way at the memory.

They had been locked in a verbal battle, when Harry responded to a particularly nasty comment by calling Malfoy a pansy. A silence fell over those who had come to observe. There was a rumor going around that Draco Malfoy preferred men to women, and his reaction to this insult would separate truth from gossip.

He only flashed his trademark smirk, and said that _he_ wasn't the one who wore makeup.

Poor Harry, that one caught him by surprise. He dropped his defensive stance and the angry glare disappeared from his face. He looked genuinely confused. Malfoy only laughed and said that he wasn't the one who wore _more mascara than the Patil twins combined _or something like that.

He may not havehad girly eyes, but he had a black eye for the next two days that his wounded ego refused to let him heal, to show that he was tough, or something stupid like that.

Ron was tempted once again to laugh aloud. He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, only to find Fred and George making breakfast. He didn't know what they were doing up at this hour, and he didn't particularly want to know, because he was sure it wasn't as innocent as cooking the family breakfast.

"Care for some eggs little brother?" Knowing better than to accept anything Fred or George offered him he declined. He reached into his robe pocket, and felt the wizard identification card still there. Oh, that reminded him.

"Hey guys, Harry and Hermione don't have a clue about our tradition, so not a word until I get back and can explain it to them, ok?" It went without saying that they were expected to relay the information to the rest of the family.

"Will do." George replied.

"Tradition, Ron?" Fred asked. "Is that exactly the right word for it?"

"Well, what else would you call it? Every Weasley has done it once they came of age. Well, not you guys, but everyone else in this house has, right on down to Percy."

Fred's face darkened at the mention of his older brother, but George reacted in a way that would have seemed peculiar to someone who didn't know him.

"Who?" he asked. Ron, familiar with the ritual, merely sighed and replied,

"Sorry. I don't know who Percy is. I meant to say Charlie, but you knew what I meant."

After almost a year of being gone, George refused to accept Percy's existence. He had completely convinced himself that he had never had an older brother named Percy. At first the family had found it disturbing, but they eventually realized that this was just George's way of handling things. Ron sometimes envied his brother's ability to secure himself in a false reality, something he had never been able to do.

"Well, I'm off!" Ron stated merrily, and with a smug grin and a soft pop he apparated to the Leaky Cauldron, his identification card doubling as an apparition license.

He looked around the smoke filled pub, his eyes immediately landing on the bar. Legally, he could drink now, and he had always wondered what firewhiskey tasted like. It might even help him explain things to Hermione and Harry. But he didn't think Hermione would appreciate him being tipsy on top of everything else she had to take in. Alright, so, no alcohol today.

He walked over the special wall inside the pub and tapped the appropriate bricks. The wall opened and he stood facing Diagon Alley.

There was hardly anyone out today. Ron couldn't blame them; it was way to early to be shopping. He shouldn't even be up yet, but for some reason his internal clock didn't agree with him today.

He continued to walk around and look in shop windows, pretending that he was actually going to buy something, until he came to where he wanted to be. He took a deep breath, and with a casual glance over his shoulder, he slipped into Knockturn Alley.


	5. Realization

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 5: Realization

Disclaimer: I don't own it

A/n: Sorry once again for the delay. I know I said a few days. I meant like, a week.

He wasn't doing anything illegal. It just wouldn't look very good to someone passing by. Knockturn Alley wasn't well known for its teashops, after all. Ron shuddered as he looked around. God this place was creepy. Shops were filled with dark artifacts and human body parts. He hugged his cloak to him tightly.

He wasn't exactly sure where he needed to go. Well, he knew where he needed to go; he just didn't know where that was. He paused. That didn't even make sense in his head. He supposed he'd know when he came to it; it seemed pretty hard to miss.

And then he heard it. The auctioneer, his mouth going a mile a minute, rattling off names and prices. The items he was selling were lined up according to height, looking dejected and forlorn. He had reached the slave market.

XxXxXxXxXxXx

Well, there he was, in line to be sold. The auctioneer wouldn't come by him, wouldn't call out his name or offer prices. His price was of the fixed sort, no less than 4,000 galleons. Draco thought he was just being set up to become a sex slave. No one in their right mind would pay more than 3,000 galleons for an extra pair of hands around the house.

He would know. The Malfoy used to own quite a few of these slaves. Well, they weren't slaves in every sense of the word.

The parent or guardian of the child (because they had to be under seventeen) would offer them at the auction, and then when someone bought them, the parents were notified. Whenever the parents got enough money to buy the kid back, they would. If they never got enough money, the child served a total of ten years, or, if after ten years they were not of legal age, until they turned seventeen.

The people who bought them couldn't sell them to anyone but the original owner, but while the child was in their possession, they were just that; in their possession. They became no more than property, weren't even counted in the census if one were to come around.

The owners could do whatever they wanted with them. So essentially they were slaves, but the politically correct term was unpaid servant.

The practice was no where as near as common as it used to be. It was, for the most part, a practice kept singularly in the pureblood families, and the pureblood families were getting smaller, so slavery was dwindling.

It was actually frowned upon by most of the wizarding world. They thought it cruel and barbaric. And generally it was. But it didn't start out that way, oh no. It started out as charity, a way for families with too many kids to get a financial boost while knowing that their child wasn't going to go from person to person, unlike with adoption agencies.

Today, unfortunately, it was pretty much just junkies with a spare kid looking for a quick galleon. Of course there were a few people who used it for the intended purpose. Draco's mother wasn't one of them. She fit better in the former category.

He'd been standing out here for nearly a week now. His mother had just dropped him off, saying that the paperwork was already filled out, and the people who oversaw the operation would tell him what to do. She then left without so much as an 'I'm sorry' or ever a goodbye. Not that he was expecting one or anything. It just would have been nice.

He had been shuffled to the end of the line, because he was by far the tallest one there. Typically no one over twelve was offered, because typically no one over twelve was bought. Most people wanted a younger kid, someone who wasn't going to cause problems.

At sixteen, there was slim chance anyone was going to want him, and his odds were brought down even more bye his high price. He still couldn't believe it. His mother was asking for a whole 4,000 galleons for him. He knew he was worth much more than that as a person, but as a slave he probably wasn't worth half that. Slaves and people were not the same thing, after all. No one cared about property. And that's what he had become. Property.

He hated it! How could he just be tossed aside by his mother? How could she live knowing that she was selling her own son, her very own flesh and blood?

He stopped his mental ranting. It was pointless and exhausting, a very bad combination. Besides, his walls were up, it wasn't possible for him to feel this angry. And he knew they hadn't fallen. He was always conscious of the emotional walls he put around himself, he always sensed their presence. If the fortifications started to fail, he was instantly alerted to it. So how was this possible? With his barriers intact he shouldn't be feeling anything.

It must be the cold, he decided. His stomach grumbled. And the hunger, he added. And the sleeping in a warehouse of sorts when selling hours were over and the sickness going around that would eventually reach him and the constant threat of the guards that wouldn't hesitate to hit you if they thought you were plotting something AND the fact that his damn hand had gotten infected anyways!

Well, he had started the mental ranting again, and, he noticed with a shock, he was angry again. After he cooled down he supposed he might have exaggerated a bit. The guards weren't all that bad. He was new, and he figured he had a couple of weeks before they got rough, because he knew they would eventually.

There was this one boy, only a few spots down from him in line, who had supposedly been there for two years. He was a very sickly child, very skinny and not very strong. No one would buy him.

His parents had died of some disease that had affected the poorer regions of the wizarding world about a year ago. Apparently there had been some massive outbreak, and hundreds of people had died. Draco had never even heard of it. The kids he was in line with called it the 'spots.'

Well, the boy's parents had said over and over again they didn't want the boy to be put into an orphanage. He could switch from person to person and they'd never know about it. They had insisted on this route, and because they had signed all the forms, it became legally and magically binding, even after death.

So he was stuck until he was bought, and after two years it didn't seem very likely. He was the guard's play toy, and the group's scapegoat. They guards would beat him just because they felt like it, and if anything went wrong he got the blame for it. Half the time he wasn't fed, and he was always sick, sometimes violently so.

But it didn't matter who you were. If you were ill, you received the minimum amount of treatment, just enough to keep you alive. That's why Draco's hand hadn't been healed yet. He would do it himself, but they had taken his wand, and he could only do the simplest spells with wandless magic. But even attempting magic would take you off the market for a month. They wouldn't even give people a chance to buy you. It might not be a huge deal for the younger ones, but Draco only had until June. If you weren't bought before your seventeenth birthday, the law stated you must be killed.

It had been drizzling a while ago, but now the water had picked up speed. It was slightly raining now, but it was cold. Today was warmer than yesterday. If it had done this yesterday, it might have been snow, which Draco figured would probably have been better. This rain was the kind that got inside you, and kept you cold and shivering.

Draco then decided to break yet another rule that had been drilled into his head. He mumbled a phrase under his breath; a phrase he had never used before, but one that seemed safe enough to use now.

"It's not like it can get any worse." And that's when he saw a flash of red hair, coming towards the slave market. It had to be a Weasley; they were one of the few pureblood families that still practiced slave ownership. Of course they thought they were being noble, doing a good deed and all that.

Draco paused, and wryly noted that it had just gotten a _lot_ worse. The universe just wasn't on his side today was it?

XxXxXxXxXxXx

Ron was now openly glaring at the sky. It had started out as a nice day, then there had been a fine mist, and now it was raining. Great. Well, it could be worse. He could be one of the kids standing in line waiting to be sold.

He stood a few meters from them, observing. There were only a few other people who looked like they were contemplation purchasing someone. A tall and rather severe looking witch stood beside him, examining a very thin boy who looked anywhere from six to eight. She moved on down the line, looking for someone who suited her better, Ron supposed.

The poor boy she had been looking at didn't look like he was going to make it much longer.

But besides himself and the witch there was only one very average looking wizard who he got a very bad vibe off of. He looked capable of great cruelty, and Ron pitied the child who ended up with him for a master. Well, he pitied all of them. It was a horrible fate, and Ron was going to make sure whoever he chose would have fairly easy time of it.

He looked farther down the line. They all looked pretty much the same to him. Not in the best physical condition, and tiny. Except for the boy at the end. He was much taller than all the others.

Ron noticed the auctioneer was avoiding him, and that there was something about him that seemed strangely familiar. But that wasn't possible. Ron didn't know any second class people. Unless they used to be from first class? Maybe even someone from school? That would be awful. He looked about his age too.

Ron really wanted to know who it was, but if the kid knew him it would be awkward. So he decided to just drop it. It really was horrible for the poor kid though.

Ron had almost decided on a sturdier looking boy of about ten, when the sun broke through the dismal clouds. And that's when he saw the light reflect off of the mysterious boy's platinum blonde hair. He stared, disbelieving for a few moments, and then he smiled, a contemplative look on his face. It really wasn't horrible at all was it?


	6. The purchase

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 6: The Purchase

Disclaimer: Insert funny disclaimer here. I'm spent.

A/n: Ok, I can't blame this late chapter on anything but laziness. I just didn't feel like writing it, and when I decided I probably should start chapter six, I found my schedule full. Story of my life. So I'm really really sorry about the lateness for those few of you reading it.

He had seen him. He had most definitely seen him. Even through the wandless notice-me-not charm he had risked despite the possible consequences. But the charm hadn't been very strong. He was starting to feel his life along with his magic drain out of him, after only a week. This was the kind of place that did that to you.

The Weasel was making a beeline for him now. Draco looked around frantically for a place to hide, and after finding none, he slumped his shoulders in defeat. He would never live this down, ever. The filthy red head would confront him, mock him, and then tell everyone about his disgrace. He wouldn't pass up a chance to humiliate his enemy. Or perhaps he would, Draco mused. He was a Gryffindor, after all. He might take the 'I'm- noble-because-my-house-tells-me-to-be' route. If that were the case it would be the first time Draco ever appreciated Gryffindor qualities in a person.

He was upon him now, and wasn't saying much of anything. Just eyeing him. He even had the audacity to circle him a few times, his blue eyes continuing to roam his body. Nothing was said by either boy for a full five minutes, but Ron looked steadily at Draco, while Draco refused to lift his eyes from the ground.

Draco was beyond uncomfortable at this point, and he shifted from foot to foot, hoping Weasley would think Draco Malfoy had a twin or something. After a few more moments, Draco, unable to take the tension, finally blurted out an exasperated

"WHAT?"

Weasley continued to nothing but pace and stare, looking as if he were trying to solve a very difficult equation. Three minutes later Draco had long since given up hope of him responding, when he finally asked,

"What's your starting price?"

Draco smirked, familiar in his usual position of having the upper hand. Even if it was so small a thing as knowing something Weasley didn't know.

"I don't have one," he said, with an arrogance his situation didn't exactly call for.

Ron looked confused. "Do you mean to tell me you aren't for sale?"

"That's not what I said."

"Well then, what did you say?"

"I said approximately two seconds ago. Is your short term memory as useless as your dress sense?"

Neither boy had seen the guard watching their interaction, but Draco felt the bruising force crash across his shoulder blades in the form of a guards club. He arched and cried out. The guard grabbed his hair and whispered dangerously into his ear, "Respect to a possible customer, newbie." He shoved Draco's head back up.

The first thing he saw when his head was released was a very intense looking Ron, his outstretched arm holding his wand and pointing it at the guard. "And respect to possible merchandise sir." The guards face darkened, but he said nothing. He attempted a staring contest, but Ron didn't seem to notice or care, almost as if the guard wasn't worth his time.

Draco wondered where Weasley had learned to act like that. That type of maneuver was worthy of a Malfoy. Since when did Weasley act condescending?

The guard had left and gone to pick one someone else when Draco looked down the line, and noticed everyone was openly staring at him. He coloured slightly, hating the fact that people had noticed him.

Ron snapped his fingers in front of his face. Draco turned his attention back to him.

"So, if you don't have a starting price you must have a fixed one. What is it?"

Draco decided he should cut the sarcasm and just answer the question.

"4,000 galleons."

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

Ron kept his expression blank, but inside his head wheels were turning. He fingered the 3,000 galleons in his pocket. He felt guilty enough as it was. He had practically depleted his entire family's savings. He couldn't ask for more money.

But no way in hell could they ask 4,000 galleons for him! That was a young, experienced sex slave price. Ron didn't know about his experience, nor did he want to, but Malfoy wasn't nearly young enough for those sick bastards who took pleasure out of raping defenseless slaves.

He could always forget it and buy someone else, but somehow that didn't seem right. Malfoy could only have a few more months, at the most, and it wasn't likely anyone else would buy him. Besides, what did that say when your own enemy wouldn't even buy you? Yeah, that was a real confidence booster.

Ron was still pondering what to do when an odd sounding whistle blew. The people for sale all sat down, as sandwiches appeared out of nowhere. Malfoy was no longer interested in Ron; he was interested in his food. He ate quickly, shoveling it down as fast as he could, not caring how uncultured he looked.

Ron glanced down the line and noticed all the other boys; there were no girls that Ron could see, doing the same. All except that sickly looking child the witch was looking at earlier. He didn't even acknowledge the fact that food was in front of him.

The boy beside him, the one Ron had almost bought, took his sandwich and ate it along with his own. Well, that explained why he looked healthier than the others. He was getting double portions. The smaller one didn't even notice.

Ron shuddered as he looked into the boy's eyes. He had given up. He didn't care what happened to him from this point on. He didn't fear death, he was begging for it.

Ron had seen the look before, plenty of times, on the face of his best friend. Harry, on more than one occasion, had lost the will to live. He was still fighting a daily battle with his apathy for life, and constantly trying to get over Sirius's death. But Harry would overcome his sorrow. With Ron and Hermione's help, he could do anything.

But to see the look on the face of one so young. It just wasn't right. What had the world come to? Or maybe it's always been like this, Ron thought. Maybe no one ever took the time to notice. Maybe no one cared.

He was deep in his depressing thoughts when he noticed the auctioneer sitting down to eat his own lunch. Ron had an idea. If the auctioneer was like the 99.9 percent of the population who would do anything as long as the ended up with more money than they started out with, Ron could get what he wanted for just 3,000 galleons.

He jogged over to the opposite side of the street, where the man sat; looking disdainfully at the items he was trying to sell.

"Sir?" Ron called out. The auctioneer looked up, annoyed that someone had disturbed his lunch.

"Yes? What do you want?"

"That boy down there, the one at the end, do you think he'll sell?"

The auctioneer shook his head. "Not a chance. He's too old for one thing."

He seemed to be done talking, and resumed eating his food.

"He told me he had a fixed price of 4,000 galleons." The salesman seemed rather irritated that Ron wasn't picking up on the hint that he didn't want to talk at that exact moment.

"His price is too high for another. I'm not going to get any money off of him."

Ron remembered that the auctioneer, who was also the person who oversaw much of the operation, got 20 percent of the profit, and the parents got the rest.

"Sir, what if I offered you a bit less than his price?"

He shook his head again. "Sorry kid. Fixed means it can't be changed. You can't change something that's fixed." Ron bristled at being treated like a child, or an inferior. He was a customer dammit! His voice took on a hard edge.

"Look sir, you said it yourself. No one is going to buy him. You won't get any money. I'll offer you 2,000 galleons for him."

The infuriating man laughed in his face, but he was no longer acting as if Ron were a ten year old. "You think this is the only job I work? 400 galleons ain't enough for me to break protocol. I ain't risking getting fired for no 400 of nothing."

Ron tried to find a loophole in the man's double negative, but had forgotten what Hermione said about those. He sighed. "Alright, 2,500 galleons." The auctioneer looked like he was contemplating it, but once again refused. Ron could tell he was starting to wear down when he offered 2,800, and by 3,000 he had a deal. After all, 600 galleons wasn't chump change.

But it wasn't like he was just giving up 3,000 galleons. He would eventually be reimbursed, not fully, but would get the parent's 80 percent back. The auctioneer got to keep his portion of it.

He turned to get Malfoy so he could sign the paperwork and have Malfoy sign whatever he needed to.

A loud noise diverted his attention from Draco. The sickly child was fighting with a guard. Physically fighting him. Ron noticed it was the same guard he had encountered earlier. The boy was quickly subdued, and his face resumed its former look of apathy.

Ron didn't know what could have possibly set the boy off like that. But whatever it had been, it did no good for him.

The wizard Ron had gotten a bad vibe off of earlier had been about to leave; without buying anything, when the boy went off. He turned back and immediately asked the boy's starting price. A mere 500 galleons. The auctioneer's 20 percent of Draco was more than his entire price. That was no where near normal price either. It was way below average. Ron knew that it went down over time, but still. He would have had to have been there for, over two years, Ron realized.

No wonder he had given up. And the man who had just paid his 500 galleons like he was doing nothing but giving spare change to a beggar probably thought he was getting a slave full of fire and brimstone. Fitting, he thought. The man was probably looking forward to breaking the boy. Little did he know he was already broken.

Ron watched them walk out of Knockturn alley, the slave a few paces behind the master. He smiled, happy for the boy. He wouldn't last more than a week in that man's house, and would finally greet the death he'd been wanting to meet. But before he left, he got the satisfaction of disappointing what Ron was sure would be a cruel master.

He turned his attention back to his affairs. Malfoy still stood at the end of the line, unaware that in a matter of minutes he would no longer belong to himself. Ron wondered briefly what that would be like. To not own yourself, to not be allowed to make any decisions for yourself, and depend entirely on the care of another, and pray to whatever god may be up there that they actually cared what happened to you.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Now wasn't the time to get philosophical.

"Boy!" The auctioneer cried, making Ron jump. Everyone in the line looked up, and seeing that he was wanted, Draco came over. He looked questioningly at Ron, whose face told him nothing.

"You only need to sign this one piece of parchment, Mr. Weasley, and then a drop of your blood as well as his will be needed to seal the deal."

Ron signed where the auctioneer pointed, then pricked his finger with a simple spell. Merlin he loved being able to use magic outside of school! He reached for Malfoy's hand to do the same, and noticed the bandage. He was going to leave it, dismissing it for a scrap of some kind, but when he applied pressure to his palm, to steady his hand so he could work the spell to prick his finger; Malfoy yanked it back, hissing in sharply.

"Watch it Weasley!" he spat.

"Give me your hand Malfoy," Ron said calmly. He noted dimly that this was the first time they acknowledged the fact that they knew each other.

Draco refused to let Ron touch him. He decided to opt for a different tone of voice. "Give me your hand." This command was much harsher than the last. When he still hesitated, the auctioneer, impatient, grabbed his wrist and shoved it at Ron, who took it.

"You heard him boy! Give him your hand!"

Ron slowly unwound the wrapping, being gentler than he himself would have expected. Even before he got a glimpse of the flesh underneath, he was hit with a horrid stench. Now he was afraid to finish taking it off, for fear of the condition Malfoy's hand might be in.

And yet he still was not prepared for what he saw. The seemed to be a deep gash running across his palm diagonally and the edges of it were black. As you moved further from the cut, the hand took on a greenish, purplish colour, only the very edges of his palm and his fingers the colour they should have been.

There was a disgusting fluid coming from the cut, and that's what was creating the smell. Ron gagged, and then turned angrily to the auctioneer.

"Why wasn't anything done about this?"

"It must not have been life threatening," he replied.

"It could have become life threatening!"

"And then something would have been done about it," the auctioneer answered calmly. How he could manage to not see a problem with that, Ron didn't know. He wanted to continue arguing about it, but remembered he still had to get Malfoy's blood.

He cast the spell again, squeezing out a red droplet. It fell to the paper, completing the deal. It was at this moment Ron realized that he owned another person. The reality hit him like a ton of bricks. He had known all his life that he would someday have complete control over another's life, but he had never imagined it would feel like this. The idea of the responsibility it would take consumed him, and the fact that he was now responsible for Malfoy, of all people, overwhelmed him. The first thing he should do, he decided, was heal his hand.

He had never been very good with healing spells. Ginny had always been the one in the family that had a knack for useful spells. But at least he remembered this one.

"Sanos Contagium," he whispered. Slowly, Malfoy's hand returned to its natural colour, even though the gash was still there. He'd just have to deal with that later. He had a lot of things he was going to have to deal with later. Like Harry and Hermione. Why on earth had he put off telling them until now?

"Mr. Weasley?" Ron looked up. The auctioneer looked faintly annoyed, so he guessed this wasn't the first time his name had been called.

"Yes?" he responded.

"As I was saying, this boy here was a one point in his life from a once very powerful and influential family." The man paused here, for effect, no doubt. "The Malfoys. Perhaps you've heard of them?" He said it casually, and turned to get something as he said it, but looked out of the corner of his eye for Ron's reaction.

Who didn't know who the Malfoy's were? But Ron couldn't figure out why this man was telling him now. He could have used that bit of information to try and get a higher price off of him.

"Yeah, I've heard them mentioned a few times," he answered just as casually. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, a lot of the high class pureblood families cast glamours on their children, to make sure they look the way the parents think they should look. This young Malfoy here looks as if he's had several extensive ones cast on him. He looks too much like his father for there not to be at least three on him."

Ron was still confused. "So, again, what does this have to do with anything?"

"Well," the man answered slowly, "it's illegal for a slave to have glamours from a former master on him when he gets a new master."

This made less sense than anything else the man had told him today. "Why didn't you tell me this before I bought him? What if I had bout him for my bed…" This obtained a small noise from Draco, who had, since that last outburst of his, remained silent. "…and he turns out to be hideous?"

Ron wasn't planning on doing anything of the sort with him, but still.

"Because no changes can be made to a slave without the master's permission."

"Even though the master has no choice but to allow these changes?"

"Exactly."

That was complete and utter bullshit, and they both knew it. Ron shook his head. "Fine," he said. "Do what you must."

He was a bit disconcerted at this point to find out that Draco may look nothing like what everyone thought he looked like.

The auctioneer handed Malfoy over to a man Ron had failed to notice. Draco was suddenly looking very frightened, but Ron couldn't find it in his heart to pity him. Little wretch deserved it, for all the trouble he'd caused in his short lifetime.

The new man cast a very long and more than likely very complicated spell, which at its end kicked up a large amount of dirt.

Everyone close to the cloud began to cough, and their eyes began to stream. When the dust cleared, Draco Malfoy stood there, everyone's eyes fixed on him.

Ron opened his eyes wide in disbelief.

Oh. My. God.

A/n: So sorry for the cliffhanger:P I couldn't resist. Once again, I apologize for the lateness of this chapter, and even though at this point I refuse to make promises, I will try to have chapter 7 up by next Friday. I know I have no right to request anything of you people, who I have made to wait almost a month, but, I'm going to ask something anyways. The most reviews I've ever had for any one chapter of anything is 14. If I could just get 15 reviews for this chapter, I would be so happy. I really did work hard on this one, if you couldn't tell. From what I can tell of my hit counter, about 240 people are following the story. So, if 15 of you could review, you'd make me so so so so so so happy. Thanks.


	7. Explanations

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 7: Explanations

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine. At least, not yet.

A/n: See, it's a good thing I didn't make promises isn't it? If I had promised I would have broken a promise, which you can't do if you don't make a promise. Now the word promise sounds funny. I'll stop rambling, sorry.

A/n 2: Oh, sorry, I almost forgot. Way back in, chapter 3, I think, I said I needed a muse. Well, I have one now. His name is Antami and he's a quiet guy who pretty much just gives me ideas when I seem to be running low. He's the one who's been prodding me with chapter 7, as well. So, thank him for this not being any later than it is.

A/n 3: Grr! Why can't I get out what I have to say in just one author's note? Anywho, to the person who begged me not to turn this into slash, please believe me when I say this, it's slash, but it isn't slash. I can't really give it away right now, small secret, revealed in later chapters. So just hang with me, ok? And, without further ado…

Draco had frozen at the word glamour. They weren't going to take his off were they? Even though he had never been told directly, Draco knew that he had a few, and he didn't want them removed. He liked the way he looked. If his appearance changed he'd have to get used to walking past mirrors and recognizing himself again, amongst other complications.

But it didn't look like he had much of a say in the matter. The man sitting in the shadows that he had noticed about twenty minutes ago was moving towards him.

He started to panic, knowing that his face reflected his emotions, and for once not caring. Frozen with fear he watched the man perform an extravagant spell Draco had only ever studied in theory.

A totally irrelevant thought ran through his head, of the kind that run through your head when you're extremely frightened. And it was that if this wizard was powerful enough to cast this spell, what was he doing working in some dingy contraband alley?

He didn't have long to ponder it, as a great cloud of dust was kicked up, and one of the most peculiar sensations he had ever felt overcame him. It was something between an orgasm, an extreme pressure, and a sharp pain.

The dust cloud settled, and the first thing he saw was everyone staring at him. He didn't feel any different, but he sure as hell must have looked different, judging from their expressions. He took a look around, squinting his eyes. Everything was oddly blurry.

Then he noticed something. How it couldn't have been the first thing he noticed escaped him, but the world was now about one foot taller.

That could not be good. That would mean he shrunk about a foot, which would mean he now stood at a mere four feet nine inches. He had been on the short side of average before. Now he was just short.

He wondered what else could have changed. His croaked request of a mirror broke everyone out of their stupor. Weasley transfigured something in his pocket into a hand held looking glass.

Draco moved to take it from him, and realized halfway there that his total humiliation level had not yet reached its peak. His once perfectly fitting robes no less than swallowed him now. Walking more than a few feet without tripping was impossible. But he didn't just stumble. He fell flat on his face in the wet street.

He considered not getting up, and just lying there until he died. But he figured that would be a pretty crappy way to go, and a horrible way to be remembered. So he rose from the alley, his robes dripping, and his face bright red with embarrassment.

He snatched the mirror from Weasley and took a good look at himself. There were a few subtle changes in his face. The sharp lines and angles had softened quite a bit. His ears were smaller, and his nose wasn't as long as it used to be. His lips had gone from very thin to very plump, and, if it was possible, his skin was even paler.

The biggest change of all, besides, well, the obvious, was his eyes. They were no longer mercury grey. They had darkened considerably, and were now a deep navy blue. But he was still recognizable. There was no mistaking him for anyone else. He was still Draco Malfoy.

He sighed in relief. He'd get over the short thing. Eventually. He snapped out of his reverie just in time to hear Weasley ask the auctioneer if it was possible he had taken an aging potion. Draco flushed again. What with his lessened height and rounder face, he must look younger.

He heard the auctioneer reply that if the aging potion was that strong, he would have no memory of ever having taken it. Well, there was a very simple way to test that.

"Malfoy! How old are you?" Weasley spat at him. Where the sudden hostility had come from Draco didn't know. He had almost been behaving halfway decent towards him, and now this.

"Sixteen," came his barely audible reply.

"Speak up! I asked how old you were!" No matter how much Draco had been emotionally drained the past week this command didn't fail to irk him.

"SIXTEEN!"he nearly shouted.

"There's no need to yell." The hostility was gone from his voice now. "Stay here. I've got to go pay."

Draco bristled at the order Weasley had simply assumed he would follow. He wanted to show him that he wasn't that easy to boss around, but thought that direct defiance was rather childish. Since there was no way to subtly disobey that order to try and piss Weasley off, he did as he was asked. Or rather, told.

He was still having problems processing the idea that Weasley owned him. He knew that eventually he would, but for once, he would not accept it. No, he would fight this tooth and nail.

XxXxXxXxXxXx

Ron walked into the warehouse that the auctioneer had pointed him to. Judging from the moth eaten sleeping bags this is where the merchandise slept.

He approached an elderly wizard, who gave him a toothless grin as he walked in.

"Sir?" The man just smiled again and tapped his ear. Ron spoke up. "Sir? I've come to pay."

"Who?" The man asked, a smile still on his face. At first Ron didn't understand the question.

"I've come to pay you sir," he said, confusion apparent in his voice.

"No no, which slave I mean. Which slave are you buying?"

"Oh." Ron flushed. "The older one at the end." The man nodded and put on a pair of spectacles that magnified his eyes to the point where he almost reminded Ron of professor Trelawney. He pulled out a large book that sent up a large dust cloud after he dropped it on the table.

"Right, so, that'll be…4,000 galleons." He looked up expectantly. He obviously knew who Ron was. It was apparent that he was a Weasley, and the man didn't think he could afford it. Ron decided not to take the look as an insult. This man was probably the friendliest in Knockturn Alley, which wasn't saying too much, but still.

"Err, no sir. The auctioneer and I discussed a price. We agreed upon 3,000 galleons." He just nodded again, as if that didn't surprise him at all.

"Card?" Ron took out his wizard identification card and handed it to him. The man didn't need it to confirm his age; his blood would have refused to touch the paper if he wasn't at least seventeen. They simply needed his information for the records.

He handed it back to Ron, whose picture was scowling at him, apparently having been awoken from a nap. He put it back in his pocket, ignoring its glare.

He walked back outside, blinking rapidly as he stepped into the sunlight. The rain had stopped and the clouds had obviously parted. Ron put his arms over his head, stretching. It might turn back into a nice day after all.

He sauntered over to Draco. "Come one, we're leaving." He turned without waiting to see if Draco was following him. He was anxious to get out of this accursed alley. It was starting to make him nervous.

"Thank you for your business Mr. Weasley!" the auctioneer shouted from behind him. Ron only raised his hand in acknowledgment. People are always so much friendlier after you've paid them.

He heard footsteps jogging behind him. He slowed down his long legged stride so Malfoy could keep up. Ron tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin at Malfoy's newly acquired, err, lost height. But Ron didn't let that fool him He was still Malfoy, sly, cunning, deceitful, and perhaps more beautiful than he had been before.

He didn't have to wonder where that thought had come from. Ron had always had an appreciation for beauty, no matter what form it came in. A secluded forest glen, an old man tending the grave of his stillborn son, the way his best friend's hair fell into his face when he laughed, Hermione trying her hardest to solve an impossible riddle, and everything about his worst enemy's appearance, despite the ugliness on the inside. One had to learn to appreciate beauty. He found that if you didn't, it became hard to just get by. What with the threat of war looming ever closer, joy had to be found wherever it could. If that entailed staring ay your enemy then so be it.

But those thoughts couldn't affect the way he treated him as a slave. He was property now, nothing more. Property that had caused him a lot of grief. Ron smiled. This was going to be fun.

XxXxXxXxXxXx

Draco was having one hell of a time keeping up with his new master. Weasley was unnaturally tall. He took big steps, steps that were very hard to keep pace with. But he must have noticed because at one point he slowed down. Draco blushed. If anything that just made it more embarrassing.

He rubbed his eyes furiously, tying to get everything into focus. He opened his eyes. Damn! Still blurry. Why couldn't he see clearly?

A simple charm would do the trick if it was a temporary problem. He froze. He didn't have his wand. It was back at the market. But it wasn't like it'd work for him anyways, he realized. Now that his structure had…changed, his wand would react to him differently.

He needed a new one, plain and simple.

He ran to catch up to Weasley, who glared at Draco when he found him walking beside him instead of the expected three paces behind.

"Weasley, I need a new wand."

"I know." The answer was given in such a detached manner Draco was temporarily stunned, and fell back again as Weasley kept walking. He stayed behind, figuring that Ron's response was intended as an assurance of his getting one. So when they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron Draco was confused.

"Weasley? My wand?" he asked, adopting a slightly annoyed tone.

Weasley mimicked his tone. "I said I new you needed one. I didn't say I'd get you one. I haven't given you permission to use magic, and it's sir to you." All of this was said without him ever once looking at Draco.

But his poor etiquette didn't concern Draco very much at the moment. He stood, shell shocked. Weasley could tell him when he could or couldn't use magic? He had known that of course. They had several slaves of this sort back at Malfoy manor. None of them were allowed magic. But it had never occurred to him that he would lose the right.

If he hadn't fully grasped the concept of being owned before, he did now. Something that had been a part of him ever since he was born was now in the control of someone else. The total helplessness of his situation crashed down on him. There was nothing he could do.

He could always choose not to obey the order, of course. He did have that freedom. You could tell a dog to sit. That didn't mean it had to. Then again you could also beat a dog until it did sit. It was more of a, weigh your pros and cons type situation.

But direct defiance seemed so childish. And Ron would be alerted to it instantly via the slight bond between them. Draco didn't know exactly how that worked; he just knew that's what happened. If he did magic after being told that he wasn't allowed to, Weasley would know.

It didn't really matter at this point though. He couldn't do much without a wand anyways.

Weasley's voice brought him out of his inner musings, but Draco only caught half of what he said.

"…on you so you can floo. We won't worry about apparition just yet. I mean, we'll get to it eventually, of course. When you get your license, or we can work on side along apparition, I suppose. Well, actually, I'm not sure about…"

And now he was rambling. Draco tuned him out again. Weasley was nervous about something. People only ramble when they're nervous. And his entire demeanor had changed. He'd been trying to play the part of a cold and distant master, but now he was acting like he was just taking home someone he didn't know all that well, a friend of a friend who was there just to spend the night while passing through town.

He supposed he'd been talking about using a charm to allow him to floo to his house, if you wanted to call it that. Most wizarding families, even blood traitors, had some sort of protection on their fireplace to prevent unwanted visitors from just popping into their living room.

He was proven right when Weasley murmured what sounded like a disarming spell, and Draco felt the cold tingle of a properly formed disarming spell run down his spine. And Weasley was speaking again.

"So you go through first, and call out The Burrow." Draco couldn't resist raising an eyebrow at the name of his home. The Burrow? Honestly.

He grabbed a handful of floo powder and shouted out the instructed name. He felt the familiar unsettling effects as he fell into a fireplace. He suddenly found six pairs of eyes on him, staring at him from the kitchen, where the Weasley family plus one Potter and one Mudblood were eating breakfast. And everyone's hair was…not its natural shade.

Right on cue, Weasley fell in behind him, sending him sprawling onto the floor. He heard Potter speak first. Figures. "Ron, is that who I think it is?"

A/n: Well, that's it. I'm sorry it's short, and I'm sorry it took me a month, again. Really, I'm sorry. I got waaaaaaay over my 15 requested reviews, than you guys so much. So, I'm just going to ask for another 15. Ok, I'm going to be at camp until the first part of August. I'll try and get three chapters written in that time period, and I'll try to post them weekly, starting from when I get back. So, I haven't died, I'm just at summer camp. Thanks again to everyone who reviewed!


	8. Explanations II

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 8: Explanations II

Disclaimer: don't own it

A/n: I'm back! Camp was great, thanks to all who reviewed, and without further ado, on to chapter 8!

"Ron, is that who I think it is?"

Weasley started to laugh insanely. He had lost his mind, Draco decided. There really was no other explanation for it. Yes, this was an odd situation, but Potter's question did not warrant that kind of response. Weasley had to be insane.

"Harry…" Ron was saying, between deep breaths "your hair…Fred and George…breakfast…" and fell into renewed fits of laughter to the point he became impossible to understand.

Potter caught on when he looked at Granger's head, her normally bushy brown hair a violent shade of purple. He too burst out laughing. It didn't take long for everyone else at the table to figure it out. No one's hair was a natural shade. Not that fire red could really be considered a natural shade in the first place, but still.

Everyone had cracked up by this point, the Weasley seniors looked like they were laughing against their better judgment, and the identical boys Draco assumed were the culprits stood leaning against the doorway, identical smirks on their faces. Their hair, Draco noted, had escaped the colour changing experience.

And there he sat, sprawled out on the Weasley living room floor, not laughing, because quite frankly, he didn't find it amusing in the slightest. He cleared his throat so the attention would return to him, before remembering that this was one of the few times he didn't want everyone to focus on him. Damn. Too late now. All heads turned in his direction. Draco had never seen a room sober up quite that quickly before.

"Ron, is that who I think it is?" De ja vu. Draco noticed that Weasley, well, the one that had just purchased him, looked very uncomfortable. After what seemed like an eternity he finally responded.

"Well, err, who do you think it is?" Oh, brilliant response, Draco thought. Surely he could do better than that.

By this point Granger thought she should join the conversation, it being impossible for her to go more than five seconds without saying anything and all.

"Well Ron, it almost looks like Draco Malfoy, but, not the same you know? A little different in the face, definitely shorter, but, that's who it appears to be. But that's impossible; it can't actually be him, can it?"

"See, that's where you're wrong Granger…"

Ron turned to look at him so sharply and gave him such an intense look that he stopped mid-sentence.

"I haven't told you to speak yet. Don't put in any of your input until everyone else is finished talking."

Draco couldn't decide whether the astonished look on 2/3 of the golden trio was from discovering that he really was Draco Malfoy, or from their friend giving him an order, much less him actually following it. Probably a healthy mixture of both.

Not that it mattered. Right now, what mattered was the most recent expression Granger's face had taken on. She looked just like she did about two seconds before she had slapped him, way back in third year. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Hell, last week seemed like a lifetime ago. Draco pulled himself back into the situation at hand before he could travel any further down memory lane.

This time the Mudblood's anger wasn't pointed in his direction. Weasley took an involuntary step back.

"Ron there had better be a good explanation for this." Despite the intense glare she was focusing on him and the aggressive stance she had assumed, her voice was calm, almost unnaturally so.

"Alright you lot, clear out," came a voice from across the room. The twins were shepherding the family out of the kitchen and into a less…confrontationally occupied room. But why there was confrontation at all Draco didn't know. He should think that Granger would be happy with her friend's choice of slave.

And for some reason he wasn't sure of, the words Granger and slave used together in the same sentence rang a bell. That's right! She started that whole thing saying that 'the use of house elves was unethical' or something. He remembered now. Back in fourth year. It only ever had a few members, and it could have quite possibly been the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard of. And Draco had heard his fair share of ridiculous things in his short life.

He was surprised that she even agreed to come here for vacation knowing Weasley would be purchasing a slave, or unpaid servant, to be politically correct. It was just like the difference between Muggleborn and Mudblood. Granger was a Mudblood, and he was a slave. There was no need to try and be polite about it.

He pondered his thought process. Most people would suddenly have an 'understanding' for the other side. But not in his case, and he wondered why. He now considered himself lower, and grudgingly accepted it. So, would he care if someone treated him as an inferior? He had to think about it. Yes, he decided, he would most definitely care, and more than likely rebel.

So why did he still have no sympathy for the lower class, even though he now occupied it? And that's when he realized he had not sympathy for them, but empathy. He did in fact understand what it was like to be beneath others, he had always understood. He simply did not pity them; they weren't people, at least not a person like him.

So did that mean he wasn't fully human now? Was he actually below Potter and his gang? Logically, the answer had to be yes, if he was sticking with the same way of thinking. But there had to be a way to come up with the answer he wanted without having to do any rearranging of his thought process. He'd always been able to do it before.

And he found it. Literally he wasn't below them. But they thought so, and they made up most of the population. So what they thought became fact, so only they're opinions mattered. So yes, he would care if someone treated him as an inferior, but he wouldn't blame them.

Well, now that that was all worked out he had a reality he had to get back to. He saw Weasley take another step back.

Something in his mind clicked, and he heard a small voice, well, at least he thought it was a voice, tell him that he should protect his master.

The bond between them was very slight. He wasn't forced to follow any order, he didn't have to kneel in his master's presence, and since Weasley had chosen not to use the poneatis charm, even though he could punish him for not following an order, the bond could not.

But apparently it was kind enough to offer suggestions as to how he would act in certain situations. Great. And just when he though it couldn't get any better, there ended up being another perk to this whole slave business.

Granger was getting more and more aggressive, her voice was now raised and she was asking over and over again was this what she thought it was. He once again had to wonder why she was angry at all. If she knew that Weasley was getting a slave…and now everything made sense. She hadn't known, thus the confusion on her and Potter's part, the twins letting them work out the confrontation they obviously knew would exist, and Weasley's nervousness in the Leaky Cauldron. Everything was coming together.

If there had been any doubt as to what was going on it was erased when Draco glanced at Potter. He was staring at Draco, not even attempting to hide his confusion. Granger had undoubtedly read about the practice of slavery, and he had heard through the grape vine that Potter had been raised by muggles, so of course he wouldn't know anything about ancient pureblood practices.

Well, the mudblood had obviously figured it out. Weasley's stammering and repeated it's-not-what-it-looks-likes probably only confirmed her suspicions.

"Oh yeah Ron?" She took another step forward and simultaneously shoved him in the chest. "Yeah, well, what is it then?" She shoved him again. "What is it?" Her voice had been gradually rising the entire time, so she was practically shouting at this point.

A low thrumming noise had been slowly building inside Draco's skull, and the intensity had increased thrice fold as soon as Granger had pushed Weasley. He had just been ignoring it before, but now it was almost painful.

"Protect your master," again came the voice that he wasn't sure existed or not. It was more like someone was putting thoughts in his head. But it was there nonetheless.

"Look, Hermione," Weasley was saying, "it's a tradition, it's been in my family for centuries." It almost looked as if he was going to say more, but Granger didn't give him a chance. She struck him hard across the face, and the thrumming noise in Draco's head became officially painful.

He clutched his head, hissing in sharply as he did so. He knew all he had to do was try to 'protect' Weasley and the sound would go away. Even though Draco knew he wasn't in any real danger the bond didn't, or it just didn't care.

He stole a quick glance at potter, his lime green hair already beginning to return to jet black. It looked as if he wanted to intervene, but didn't have the guts. Didn't say much for Gryffindor courage now did it?

Weasley resumed trying to explain. "It isn't forever Hermione, and his family is paid."

"Do you think that matters Ronald?" she screeched. "Do you really think it matters?" She struck him again, and this time Weasley visibly winced.

The noise in Draco's head was almost unbearable now, he had to do something.

"STOP," he screamed. Or at least he tried to scream. His throat had closed up, and nothing but a hoarse whisper came out. Seeing no other option and hoping what was left of his much abused pride would survive it, he jumped in front of Weasley, throwing out his arms in a protective gesture.

Well, that got their attention. It must have looked ridiculous though. He barely came up to Weasley's chest, not very intimidating.

Granger stopped her ranting, and Draco's head stopped pounding. She looked at him briefly, and then looked at Weasley with what could only be described as pure and utter disgust.

She turned on her heel, walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. She grabbed a handful of floo powder, threw it into the fireplace, set her destination for the Leaky Cauldron. A funnel of emerald flames appeared, and without hesitation, or even a glance over her shoulder, she stepped in.

Draco wondered if she knew that her hair still couldn't be mistaken for anything other than purple.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Ron ran his fingers through his hair, just one of the many mannerisms he had picked up from his best friend.

"Ron?" He turned to look at Harry. "What the hell just happened?"

Ron didn't reply for several seconds, giving Malfoy a chance to finally be able to speak a complete sentence.

"Shouldn't we, err, go after her or something?" His question wasn't answered, but the attention of the other two boys focused on him. Ron suddenly remembered something.

"Mum?" he called out. "Could you come here for a moment?" She poked her head nervously into the room. She did a quick scan to make sure nothing was being thrown, and cautiously stepped in. Normally she did not stand for any kind of arguing in her house, but she knew that her son had to tell his friends, and for once she let the conversation take its own course.

"It's alright Mum; the argument's over. Hermione left in a huff though."

She nodded. "I'll send Bill to try and persuade her to come back." At the boy's stricken looks she quickly added, "Or take her home. Now what was it you wanted Ron?"

"Malfoy, come here." He hesitated. Ron stamped his foot and pointed in front of him. "Now." Malfoy scowled, but slunk over reluctantly.

"Oh dear, this isn't Lucius Malfoy's son is it?"

"The one and only," Ron replied.

"Your father won't like this at all." He merely rolled his eyes.

"Dad'll get over it. Anyways, could you take a look at his hand for me? I healed the infection, but I don't know how to fix a cut that big."

She gently took Malfoy's left wrist, and turned over his hand so the palm was facing up. "Oh my, this is quite a nasty hash. Let's see the, oh yes. She spoke one of the many variants of the spell that mended cuts, the ones that Ron could never keep straight. Malfoy's palm instantly knitted itself together.

"You're going to have to learn how to do this yourself Ron. He's yours, not mine or anyone else's to take care of."

"I know, I'll get those spells down sooner or later." She shot him a doubtful look. "Right then, I'll just leave you boys to discuss things."

Harry waited until she had left the room, and immediately turned to Ron. A worried expression crossed his face, mixed with a slight fear. The look made Ron's heart clench. He hated seeing his friend anything but happy and content.

"What is going on? What do we have to discuss? Why is Hermione so angry? And what on earth is Malfoy doing here?" His voice had raised almost a whole octave, and there was a slight note of desperation in his tone.

Ron placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, which seemed to calm him down a bit.

"Harry, I think you should sit down. It looks like I've got a lot of explaining to do.

A/n: Well, I hope you liked it. I would apologize for not updating, but it isn't actually my fault this time. I know I said I would get three chapters done at camp, but I simply did not have the time I thought I would. So chapter nine may take more than a week to get up, but no more than two weeks. In case you were wondering about the hair colour thing, if you can remember way back into chapter four, Ron found Fred and George making breakfast. Well, now we all know what they were actually doing.


	9. What the Storm Brings

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 9: What the Storm Brings

A/n: Ok, so, my muse kind of…died. And another plot bunny hit. But this one came back. So, here is the very later chapter nine. I said two weeks. I obviously meant two months. This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful anonymous reviewer, The Boy, who is also my 100th review. Thanks!

A/n2: Dear mou, I would have left you this in an email, but, alas, you didn't leave an address for me. If you're still here, still reading this, I'll point out a few things to you. Slavery isn't condoned in the wizarding world. But my story is an AU. So I just put it in there. Cause I can. And Ron IS a hypocrite, even in cannon. Everything else I'll explain later. If you're still reading of course.

A/n3: And slight slashiness in this chapter. Surprise pairing, sort of. Won't be the focus of more than two chapters, I don't think.

Antami: Well, it's about time

Azamystic: You know what, shut up. You've been absolutely no help with this chapter.

Antami: -shrugs- whatever.

On with the story…

Torrents of water crashed against the window. It seemed that the rain this morning had only been a part of a much larger storm.

Ron shivered with excitement as a large clap of thunder shook the house. He loved thunder storms. He couldn't imagine anything more perfect.

He was lying there, content with the moment, when pale hands ghosted over his body. Despite the electric tingle they provided, a heavy sigh escaped him.

"Not tonight Harry."

A small whimper, and then, "Please Ron?"

"No, not tonight. I just can't tonight. Sorry."

"So you're still upset about Hermione leaving." Ron could tell Harry was trying very hard to keep any hint of accusation out of his voice. The slight gesture made him smile.

"Of course I'm still upset; she's my friend after all. No one likes to see a friend that angry, especially at them."

He knew things hadn't gone exactly according to plan today, but he also knew they could have gone a lot worse. Luckily, Harry understood the concept of slavery, and that the Weasley family was only trying to help out kids who needed it. The only thing he hadn't understood was why Malfoy was for sale in the first place, something that Ron hadn't understood either.

They could ask him, but legally he didn't have to say anything about his former life. They decided to give it a shot anyways, and as expected, he didn't say much. They did figure out that his money and fortune were no longer, and that his mother had put him up for sale. Details weren't pressed for, and they weren't given.

Ron had known ever since he bought Malfoy that his father would not agree. Their feud with the Malfoy family hadn't been forgotten after Lucius was thrown into Azkaban. He prepared himself for another confrontation, but once again luck was on his side. His dad had had a heap of work dumped on him just as he was about to leave the office. So he'd be pulling an all nighter at the ministry.

Thank Merlin for small favors. But they were very small indeed. And pretty much the only two things that had gone right with the day.

Because the hour and a half it took for him to explain to Harry what was going on was the most nerve-wracking hour and a half of his life. He deeply regretted not getting that shot of firewhiskey when he had the chance. Not having all his senses right then wouldn't have been such a bad thing.

To make it worse, Malfoy was in the room, and even though Ron knew he had complete power over him, it didn't make his presence any less threatening. His long time school rival was listening to him try to explain very difficult subject to Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, who's psyche, as Draco would soon learn, was nothing short of broken, and for some reason he was still expecting a biting remark or stinging insult. He still had that haughty look of arrogance about him, and Ron had to keep telling himself that he was the one in control, not him.

And just that look on Harry's face, the one where he wanted Ron to reassure him that everything was ok, was enough to make him want to hold him close and breathe in that wonderful earthy scent of his hair. Yeah, that look, the one he was giving him right now.

Shadows flitted across the room, playing with the minds of those unsuspecting people who were very close to the realm of unconsciousness. They warped familiar objects, and made what was once obvious a mystery. The general sense of unease they caused made Ron hold Harry just a little bit closer, even as he heard his friend's breathing slow into a familiar rhythm.

He hated having to deny Harry anything, but there were some things he needed to work out in his mind. Plans for the future, what he was going to do about Hermione, how he was going to handle everyone's reactions at school, and mainly was he was going to do with Malfoy.

Purchasing a slave seemed to have shoved him rather hard into the adult world, leaving his friends a step or two behind. Well, not Hermione. She'd always be at least three steps ahead of him.

Speaking of Hermione, she had somehow managed to complicate matters so thoroughly today that he couldn't even comfort Harry as much as he would like to. He just had to make due with holding him close. So that's what he did. They stayed that way for countless minutes; Harry curled into Ron's chest, and Ron's arms protectively around him.

His thoughts slowly shifted from the future to the present, too caught up in the moment to notice.

"Ron?" cam a muffled voice, a bit too tentative for Ron's liking. Poor Harry was so screwed up. After Sirius died, his confidence, his naturally assertive nature, and even his will to live vanished. He could put up a charade for others, but that's all it was. A charade. He hid behind sulky moods and a quick temper, insuring no one would bother him. Much a repeat of last year actually. Suspicion was low, only the people who knew him best understood what he was going through; understood that there was a mask being worn.

And the mask was only taken off for his friends, and only in the most intimate moments.

Like now, it was one of those moments where he demonstrated just how much he wanted someone else to take control. Ron let out another sigh.

"Yeah?" He gave him a full minute to respond before deciding that it had been something important, and he had lost his nerve. "What was it?"

"Nothing," in that same small voice, almost as if he was scared. The voice that made Ron cringe every time he heard it.

"Don't lie. What did you want to say?" He had adopted an almost authoritative tone, one that he had learned to use with Harry. It had taken him long enough to figure out that that was what he wanted though. Harry had pushed him one night until Ron couldn't take anymore, and had made him tell him to go to sleep or he'd regret it. He'd felt horrible as soon as he said it, but to his complete and utter surprise, Harry muttered an 'I'm sorry Ron,' and rolled over and gone to sleep. Well, what ever it took right?

"Nothing." A pause. "Well, it's just…I was wondering, when are we going to tell people about…you know…us?" His voice had gotten so soft by the end of his question, Ron was scarcely sure he'd heard the entire sentence. But realizing that he hadn't missed anything, he broke into a cold sweat. _What did Harry think this was?_

Ron thought he had made that clear. He said the first thing that came to mind. "Err, we're not in a relationship of, well, not of that sort anyways. You know that." He felt proud of his answer, considering he managed to spit it out while his mind clouded with panic. But the sad thing was that he was expecting Harry to voice a small 'oh' and make himself more comfortable in his embrace.

Apparently he wasn't that far gone. Harry pushed himself away from him.

"What do you mean we're not in a relationship? What the hell is this then?" Ron almost let loose an audible gasp. There, right there. There had been a flash of the old Harry.

"Look, I thought you understood. We aren't together. I was just…" He was cut off with sharp words. Bit of a de ja vu affect really.

"Using me? What am I? Your golden boy fuck toy?" This was the most vibrant Ron had seen Harry in months. His eyes were shining, his breathing was labored, and above all else, he was sticking up for himself. A part of him was overjoyed, and another part had a slow panic building. What was this going to turn into to if he couldn't explain himself?

Harry was getting angrier and angrier. Ron had no idea what to do. Why hadn't he thought this far ahead? Why hadn't he calculated this outcome into his list of possible scenarios?

He forced himself to remain calm, despite his internal rage at himself. Just because Harry was doing better now didn't mean that he was fixed. He couldn't afford to have him break at a harsh word.

"No, that wasn't what I was going to say. And that's not what you are to me. I love you Harry." Confusion replaced the hurt and anger on his face.

"Then why…?"

"But not like that. Please let me explain." The desperation in his voice was all too apparent. And that showed just how serious the situation was. Ron hadn't shown any kind of weakness in front of Harry for almost a whole year now. He had been his perfect immovable force. Like a parent, almost. But Ron tended to shirk from that analogy. Parents don't have sex with their children. Well, _good _parents don't have sex with their children.

After a nod of consent from Harry, Ron took a deep breath, preparing to once again, explain his way out of something. He didn't really get a chance.

A strangled cry was heard from downstairs, barely audible in Ron's room. But both he and Harry heard it. Ron wrinkled his brow in confusion, and turned to his bed mate, expecting to see a reflection of his expression. Instead he said only one word.

"Malfoy"

Comprehension brightened the red head's face, but realization darkened it again. Life just wasn't satisfied with the misery it was already causing him.

He could do on of two things now. He could be responsible and go downstairs to see what was bothering his property, or follow his instincts that were screaming at him to stay with Harry and make sure they came to an understanding.

"Do whatever you want Ron, I don't care." He'd gone from almost normal to right back where he had been in a matter of seconds. The voice sounded broken and his tone contained a message only Ron could hear. It pleaded with him, saying _'please don't leave me. Please don't. I need you now.'_

And at that the older boy cracked. Why did Harry even presume that he had the right to screw with him like that? All these months, working his ass off to make him better, and now this. He was still as pathetic as he had been the night Sirius had died, the very first night Harry had come to him seeking comfort, the same night they had first made love.

Absolutely no progress had been made. Despite all his efforts, nothing happened. He couldn't fix him.

And for a split second, Ron didn't care. It didn't matter if his best friend ever got fixed. And that split second was all it took for him to turn his back on Harry, and make his way downstairs to see what was wrong with Draco.

Just like the heartbroken sob and scream that sounded as if a pillow were muffling it was all it took for him to realize he had made the wrong choice.

But the choice had been made. He could only hope that Harry would fall asleep not hating him, and that they could work things out in the morning. Because he was finally beginning to understand that he couldn't help Harry anymore. Things were out of his hands, he could do no more for his friend. The healing would now have to take place from within. Ron no longer needed to interfere, because that would do nothing but set him back. So fighting the impulse to run back into the room and do whatever it was Harry wanted, he slowly creaked his way downstairs.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Draco heard every tired moan of the staircase, but didn't register the fact that it more than likely indicated someone was coming down it. He was too caught up in his terror of the impossibly realistic nightmare he had just screamed himself out of.

But already the details were fading, and he knew that in a few minutes he would be left only with the memory of fear, and the feeling of being unable to escape. The same feelings that he hadn't had to shake since he was eleven. This was the first bad dream he'd had in five years, the first dream of any kind he'd had in three.

A bolt of lightening ripped through the ink black sky, followed almost simultaneously by a loud clap of thunder. And he nearly screamed again. He hated, absolutely hated thunder storms.

Why couldn't things for once go his way? He'd hated his life back at Malfoy manor, but he'd known exactly what was going to happen, and when. He knew what nights his father would come home drunk, and he knew what nights his mother would cry herself to sleep. And the utter unpredictability of his current situation almost made him want to let his own emotions overtake him until they led him into the land of nod.

The only thing that prevented him from doing just that was that he now didn't even know what sleep would entail for him. Restful oblivion or horror filled dreams? His clenched fists twisting the threadbare blanket was the only sign of his distress. He felt so alone, so very, very alone.

Ronald Weasley chose that moment to intrude upon the young man and his thoughts. His entire stance screamed awkward and uncomfortable.

"Is everything all right down here?" the question was voiced quietly and disinterestedly. Like a doctor asking a terminal patient for new symptoms…no emotion. Just as well though. Draco didn't think he could deal with it right now.

He lay back down on the couch that he'd been assigned, and brought his knees to his chest, as if the position would protect him from his fears and uncertainties.

Weasley hadn't left. Realizing that he actually expected an answer, he whispered an 'I'm fine' and waited to hear the retreating footsteps make their way back up the creaking stairs. A full minute passed, and his master still hadn't moved from his spot.

A slight touch of apprehension was now mingled with his other mixed up feelings. Why was he still standing there? And then he heard him coming closer, walking around the couch, and actually kneeling in front of him, as if to be on eye level.

Draco tightly shut his eyes. The only sound was the blood rushing in his ears and his heart beating wildly in his chest. A large and unsurprisingly calloused hand reached out and slowly traced his jaw line. His navy orbs flew open at the touch, shimmering with a fear he didn't bother hiding.

A whispered word, low and lustful filled the room, drowned out the storm, consumed him, and drove him almost to a panic.

"Beautiful"

The world froze at that one word. Nothing moved, no one spoke, nothing. Something akin to a sob escaped him, breaking the spell, and the hand pulled back sharply, as if it had been burned.

Weasley got up slowly, and made his way through the darkness, back up the stairs. Draco closed his eyes again, hating himself as he began to cry.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

He was badly shaken. Where that brief flood of…he had no idea what it had been…came from he didn't know. But fear had enveloped both him and his slave at the same time. Thank Merlin. Just the knowledge of what he _could_ have done scared him, but even scarier was the possible answer to the question, would he have?

Refusing to think about it, he turned the corner into the bathroom. A muttered lumos sent the darkness scurrying into the corners of the small room, and the light allowed him to see his reflection. It was most definitely not the one that had stared back at him this morning. Gone was the face he had seen little more than twelve hours ago, the on that smiled at him with youthful ease. Its replacement now looked back gravely, with a maturity that comes only with experience.

He supposed this was what he had to look forward to as he progressed in years. More revelations, wanted and unwanted, more wisdom, that was more than likely due to pain, and more proof of what he discovered today. There is darkness in light, just like there was probably light in the darkness. Seeing those boys out there today, seeing someone younger than Ginny just give up…that was eye opening. Feeling light headed with power, knowing that you have the ability to do anything, and no one would stop you…that was terrifying. Reality was rearing its ugly head, and sooner or later Ron was going to have to face it.

He ran his hand through his hair, a reminder of one of the habits he had picked up from the old Harry, back when he had been hiding in the shadows of a celebrity who just happened to be his best friend. Those days were gone. If anyone had told him a year ago that he'd be standing in his bathroom in the middle of the night on some random holiday, with his best friend who he'd been having sex with thinking that it might help him recover from the death of his godfather down the hall, and Draco Malfoy, no introduction needed Draco Malfoy, as his property sleeping on his couch downstairs, well, he didn't know what he would have done. Laugh it off and told them that they should hook up with Gilderoy Lockhart sometime probably.

He sighed, he seemed to be doing a lot of sighing lately, and darkened his wand with a quiet 'nox.' He prepared himself for a sleepless night.

Silence had replaced the angry wind and violent rain outside. Ron was the only one who noticed the storm had passed.

A/n: Well, this being my first year of high school and all…it's kicking my ass. Homework, projects, endless hours of studying. Hell, pure hell. Plus band practice for 3 ½ hours after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, church on Wednesdays and Sundays, and competitions on Saturdays…I have no time. So, sorry, but it's not like I just didn't want to. Chapter 10 is…coming. Eventually. It could be three weeks, it could be three months. Probably not three months though. Anyways, once football season is over I'll have some time. Don't forget to review!


	10. Exile

A Weasley Tradition

Chapter 10: Exile

A/n: -laughs nervously- So, yeah. Hi. I actually had about this much done at Thanksgiving. And I swore up and down I would write more to it. But, I obviously haven't. So here is the inexcusably late, painfully short chapter 10. –to the random face…I'm sorry you didn't like it. Thanks for telling me…not that I care, really.-

A/n2: Just a quick recap, cuz it's been so long. Ron bought Draco. He takes Draco home. Hermione storms out. Harry stays. We learn Harry isn't good at coping with loss, and depends heavily on Ron, via a sexual relationship. Harry mistakes this for a real relationship, of the romantic sort, and a falling out ensues. Ron goes downstairs, an odd sort of power surge occurs, and on a vaguely conscious note, considers raping Draco. Not really though, it's not like he would have. Because that would be OOC, and I'm trying to work on that. –and only because it'll come up in this chapter…George is choosing to ignore the existence of Percy-

Warnings: twincest. If you squint….hard

Antami: You have no sense of priority, do you know that?

Azamystic: I don't ever remember you being this nagging. When did this happen?

Antami: Shut up and write the rest of the story already! Dammit you're annoying.

…On with the story…

Not a lot of words were needed to describe the following morning's breakfast. In fact, one summed it up quite well.

Awkward.

The familiar mayhem of a Weasley breakfast had turned into an uncomfortable silence filled affair. The usually long gone food sat practically untouched.

The twins kept glancing at each other, as if waiting for the other to make a move. Ginny looked bored out of her mind; Harry was busy staring a hole in the wall with red-rimmed eyes, Draco looked like he'd rather be anywhere else than there, and Ron appeared to be trying to hide the fact that he was nervous. And obviously not doing a very good job of it.

Arthur had elected to stay at work until the storm passed, which resulted in him not getting home until very early that morning. He hadn't noticed Draco then. He most definitely noticed him now. And just like his wife had suspected, he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

Occasions where Arthur Weasley would get truly angry were few and far between. So far in fact that Ginny was probably too young the last time it happened to remember it now.

The warning signs were clear. He would completely tense up, clench his fists, knit his eyebrows, and basically fit every other literary cliché of anger. And if he spoke, it would start out very, very soft.

"I take it this is your unpaid servant Ronald?" The use of the full name wasn't missed.

"Yeah, this is the slave I bought yesterday Dad," the use of the derogatory term too emphasized to not be deliberate.

"And is this who I think it is?" As if there was really no point to the question.

"Well, that would depend on who you think it is." Not a trace of sarcasm.

"Lucius Malfoy's son, without the glamours his pig of a father no doubt put on him."

"The one and only."

Arthur grasped his fork so tightly it bent, and turned a shade of red that rivaled his hair. The quiet part was over.

"Get him out of my house!"

Ron held up his hands in the universal hold-off-on-the-offense gesture. Keeping his voice calm, he tried to placate his father.

"Look Dad, if you think about it…"

"No. I'm not going to think about it. I will not have a Malfoy in my home. I don't care how low his status is. It doesn't matter that he's second class. He can't stay here."

Ron gave up trying to reason. "I can't take him back! He has no where else to go."

"Then you'll just have to go with him."

Ron gaped, and a moment passed where he couldn't, for the life of him, think a coherent thought. But he finally managed. "Are you kicking me out?"

"If that's what it takes. Dammit Ron, you never think of the family! Just like Percy."

Apparently a line had been crossed. The entire table, which had been doing their best to pretend there wasn't a screaming match taking place at breakfast, was now focused intently on the fight between father and son.

"Don't you dare compare me to him, and don't you dare say I don't think about this family. Everything I've ever done has been for this family! You're the only one who has a problem with him being here. It's not like he poses a threat!" It was true. Being a slave was somewhat similar to being under the Fidelus charm. Secrets could not be shared.

George turned to Fred. "Who's Percy? Ron mentioned him the other morning too." Before Fred could answer Molly turned on him.

"For Merlin's sake George, he's your brother. Quit this stupid game already!"

George looked like she had gone crazy. "Mum, I don't have a brother named Percy."

From across the table Ginny slammed her fist down in frustration. "Yes you do! If everyone else has to remember so do you. Damn it, it's not fair if you get to forget!"

George looked almost ready to cry. "What are you all talking about? You're starting to freak me out."

Fred cast an intense glare at his mother and sister. "They aren't talking about anything of importance George. It's nothing. Don't worry about it." He hugged his twin, yet the comforting embrace would have seemed too intimate, would have lasted just a moment too long for an outsider to consider it normal.

"C'mon, we're leaving." To Ron, who had stopped arguing for a moment, he said, "You're welcome at the shop anytime. You and Malfoy. And hell, Harry if he wants to come." He received a nod in return.

Arthur stood up from the table, knocking his chair over in the process. "You have three days to get him out of here. No discussion." He stormed out of the house, making sure the door slammed on his way out.

The twins had apparated out, and the remaining people sat in a silence that seemed almost surreal. It remained unbroken until Molly began clearing the table.

"Well Ron, you had better get packed," she said resignedly, and without looking at him.

"Yeah," he murmured, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Yeah, I'm out of here. C'mon Malfoy."

He got halfway up the stairs before remembering something. He looked back down. "Harry?" His friend looked up at him, Ron noticed, maybe imagined more confidence in the posture.

"Yeah?"

"You staying here, or coming with me?" His answer would determine how broken their friendship really was.

"I'm not sure. I might just go back to my Aunt and Uncle's."

Ron swallowed, nodded, and gestured to Malfoy to follow before turning to continue his way upstairs, the beginning of his own exile.

A/n: I know. I know it's short. Like I said, I wasn't originally planning to end the chapter here, but…I just can't figure out what comes next. And, for those few who care, I'm writing a new story, it's planned, so updates should be regular. I'm not abandoning this one; it's my first multi-chaptered fic, so I think it deserves to be finished. I don't know when I'll update next though. Don't put money on anything under a month though. Not that you'd put money on it, or anything. Please review!


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